Chapter 206 – The First Defeat
The emerald groves of Alfheim shimmered under twilight. Not dusk — not dawn — but that gentle in-between light that hung eternally over the High Elves' homeland. Crystalline leaves caught the soft wind, their edges glowing faintly like captured moonlight.
The diplomatic envoy from Earth had arrived earlier that morning.
Among them: two children.
A silver-haired girl named Alice, already sharp beyond her years.
And a quiet boy named Alex, no older than six, with black hair and strangely perceptive eyes.
Their parents — Mark and Sarah Elwood — had been invited as special observers by the Sunleaf Court. Negotiations were long. Formalities longer. The children were told to stay near the guest gardens.
But Alex wandered.
And in a clearing near the mirror-lake pavilion, he found her.
A girl about his age sat alone, barefoot on a carved obsidian pedestal. Emerald-green hair tumbled over her shoulders, catching the wind like silk. Her eyes — golden, amber, and sharp — never once turned toward him.
Vines curled beneath her feet like obedient pets.
Floating before her was a glowing disc, inscribed with complex shifting runes — a slowly rotating game board shaped like a silver crescent. On it danced sigils of light, sliding, colliding, fusing in layers too complex for most minds to follow.
Alex tilted his head.
"…What's that?"
The girl said nothing at first.
Then, without turning:
"Lunecraft. A duel of sigils. You wouldn't understand."
Alex walked closer, hands in his pockets. "Can you show me?"
Now she looked at him.
Her gaze was like a sword — cold, gleaming, condescending.
"You're human," she said. "Why would I waste my time?"
Alex shrugged. "I like games."
Her expression didn't change, but something flickered in her eyes.
Arrogance.
Curiosity.
Amusement.
"Very well," she said coolly, folding her legs as the board reset and floated between them. "We place sigils in turns. Form control patterns, lunar arcs, tri-phase loops. Collapse my core nexus, and you win."
She paused.
"And every time you lose a piece," she added with a sweet smile, "I imagine cutting off one of your fingers."
Alex blinked.
"…That's harsh."
"Only if you lose," Vira said, voice as smooth as a falling petal.
She didn't expect much.
In her heart, she thought: Let's see how long it takes before I take his walking finger.
The game began.
Turn after turn, she played flawlessly — no wasted motion, no hesitation. Her sigils moved with elegance, each stroke laced with magical logic.
Alex played… differently.
He didn't hesitate either — but his moves were strange. Illogical. Unorthodox. He placed a reversal rune in the wrong quadrant — only for it to shift the entire flow of the board six turns later. He stacked two glyphs she would've never allowed — but somehow they resonated.
Vira narrowed her eyes.
This wasn't luck.
This was intent.
Ten turns in, she sat straighter.
Fifteen turns — her central alignment fractured.
Seventeen — his sigils slipped behind her wards.
Eighteen — she realized what was happening.
He's cornering me…
Nineteen — her core nexus trembled.
Twenty — it collapsed.
The light dimmed.
The board stilled.
Alex sat cross-legged, head tilted.
"I win?"
Vira didn't speak.
She couldn't.
Her hands were still. Her vines had stopped moving. Her golden eyes stared, not at the board — but at the child who should have been inferior. Weak. Dull.
Human.
But in one game — her game — he had dismantled her.
And worst of all…
He hadn't gloated.
He hadn't even smiled.
He simply looked curious.
Like he'd enjoyed it.
Vira stood up slowly.
"…What's your name?" she asked coldly.
"Alex," he said, dusting off his hands. "You?"
"Vira," she said flatly.
Then, without another word, she turned and walked away — vines whispering underfoot.
She didn't sleep that night.
Not because of the loss.
But because of the way she lost.
The halls of the Sunleaf Court were quiet.
Not silent — elven halls were never silent — but respectful. The ivy-covered archways glowed with low ambient mana, and the breeze that drifted through the crystal balconies carried the soft scent of bloodviolets and sapwine.
Vira Sunleaf stood alone in the upper observatory, hands clasped behind her back. Her emerald hair flowed like a silk banner caught in still air, and her golden eyes glowed with memory.
The stars above Alfheim shimmered in their eternal rhythm.
Below her, untouched for over a decade, the ancient Lunecraft table floated gently — the same one she had used as a child.
She stared at it without moving.
Without blinking.
It had been years.
And she still remembered every move of that first match.
Twenty turns.
Twenty exact turns to be dismantled by a human.
By him.
Vira's lips pressed into a thin line.
"…Alex Elwood."
She spoke the name slowly, as if tasting it again after many years. Not fondly. Not longingly.
But with the cold edge of a memory that refused to die.
They were not friends. Never were. He had never bowed to her, never admired her like the others, never treated her with awe.
He had just… played.
And won.
Again.
And again.
She'd challenged him every day they were in Alfheim — over breakfast, before court sessions, even once during a storm where lightning struck the trees around them.
He never gloated. Never laughed.
That was what made it worse.
To him, it was just a game.
To her, it was personal.
Every loss was a crack in the statue she had carved of herself.
She was the third princess of Alfheim. The emerald scion of the Sunleaf bloodline. She had mastered combat magic at four, bent trees to her will at five, and executed her first traitor at six.
No one had ever humiliated her.
Until Alex.
And then he left.
Just like that.
Back to the human world. Back to his fragile parents and his quiet home and his forgettable little life.
She hadn't seen him since.
And yet...
That feeling, that frustrating breathless awareness, never quite left her.
She raised one hand now.
The Lunecraft board flared to life — sigils rotating, pulsing, aligning.
She played both sides at once.
Red and silver. Sun and moon.
She reenacted every game they'd played — and lost.
Every counterspell he predicted.
Every corner she thought was safe.
And every time… she fell.
She clenched her teeth.
Not from pain.
From hunger.
"I'm not the girl you beat anymore," she whispered.
The vines coiled beneath her feet, sensing her mood. The air trembled faintly as her magic stirred — not out of control, but barely held.
"He's still alive, isn't he?" she muttered. "Just older now. A grown man... but still human."
Her eyes narrowed.
"I'll find you again, Alex Elwood."
"And this time…"
She pressed her palm to the board, dissolving it in a burst of radiant green flame.
"…I won't lose."
She turned, her cloak swirling behind her like ivy caught in firelight.
Outside, the groves of Alfheim rustled — not from wind…
…but from something awakening.
Chapter 207 – The Concord of Realms
The meeting was held on Mount Olympus the skies glimmered gold. Columns of unbreakable marble soared into forever. And beneath a dome older than any empire, the gods gathered.
Not just the Olympians, but representatives from across pantheons. Amaterasu stood in flowing white with Tsukuyomi and Susanoo at her side. Ra, Isis, and Thoth arrived in flame and silence. Odin, Athena, and Bastet sat like carved judgment. The Seven Immortals of the Magic Association glided in as pure presence: Merlin with a smirk, Flamel deep in thought, Leonardo da Vinci already sketching projections of the fortress, and the others as ageless anchors of Earth's secret order.
From the shadows came the Vampire Queen Ileana Draculesti, regal and unfazed, with Mircella seated beside her in calm porcelain silence. And alongside the goddess Freyja, radiant in gold and stormlight, walked her daughter — Vira Sunleaf — the third princess of the Sunleaf Court.
As always, Vira held herself perfectly: back straight, expression unreadable, her emerald hair flowing behind her like a banner of nature's elegance. She said nothing. Observed everything.
The image of the sky fortress floated in the center of the chamber — Second Light, still and vast. Its sharp silhouette glowed dimly above their heads. For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then, with a voice like purring honey, Aphrodite leaned forward in her seat, lazily resting her chin on one hand.
"Well," she drawled, "whoever he is... I wouldn't mind if he dropped out of orbit into my bed."
There were sighs — some from exasperation, others from restrained laughter.
She tilted her head, golden curls falling over one bare shoulder. "A man in that kind of armor? Silent. Controlled. Devastating. Don't pretend none of you thought about it."
Several gods looked away.
"He saved the world," she continued, smiling slowly. "Surely, he deserves a reward. I could give him twins. Maybe triplets, if he's impressive enough beneath all that plating."
"Your restraint is legendary," muttered Athena, not looking up from her analysis tablet.
"You're just jealous," Aphrodite replied with a wink.
"You say that to everyone," Artemis muttered under her breath.
"And it's always true."
Then another voice joined her — rich, confident, dangerous.
Ishtar stepped forward, hips swaying with divine arrogance. She waved a hand and materialized a mid-air projection of the man in black armor, captured during the Antarctica battle. His movements were surgical, his posture relaxed — unaffected by the divine presence around him.
Ishtar licked her lips.
"I've broken kings with a glance," she said. "I've made gods bow with a smile. If this man thinks he can wear silence like armor... I'll peel it from him thread by thread."
A few nearby gods groaned audibly.
"I'll make him mine in a week," she said, eyes gleaming. "Less if he enjoys being toyed with."
"Do you ever get tired?" Amaterasu asked flatly.
"Of men?" Ishtar smiled. "Only after they beg."
Vira, standing behind her mother, blinked slowly. The pettiness of it all grated at her. These women — divine or not — were falling into lust with a ghost. An unknown man who had not once revealed his face, who had spoken no words, who had vanished without acknowledgment.
It was beneath them.
But that didn't stop the murmurs.
The Seven Immortals, however, said nothing at first. They watched. Measured. When the silence finally returned, it was Merlin who broke it.
"He is not like the rest of us," Merlin said, voice even. "He does not seek worship. He did not act to impress."
Flamel nodded. "He waited until the last second. Until even the divine had begun preparing for extinction."
"He saved us," said Queen Elizabeth I. "Without hesitation. Without claiming territory. Without even asking for thanks."
Sun Tzu added, "And he knew exactly how much force to use — not a breath more."
"Which means he understood the threat better than any of us," Da Vinci murmured, completing a rotating model of Second Light in golden glyphs. "The scale. The timing. The line of effect. All aligned with the incoming corruption perfectly."
The word hung in the air.
Corruption.
Isis stepped forward, raising her hand. An image shimmered in the center of the chamber — a memory pulled from divine echo. The Antarctic incident.
A meteor crashing.
A god struck down.
A creature — not of flesh, not of shadow — pulsing with tendrils of rot and hunger.
"This was not death," she said. "It was something older. Hungrier."
Ra added, "It consumed the earth it touched. It learned. It grew."
Amaterasu nodded, her gaze unreadable. "Had it landed in a city, it would have devoured the living and the spiritual alike. And adapted again."
"Now multiply that," Zeus said grimly. "Twenty-three thousand times."
There were no jokes then. No flirtations. Only the cold truth.
They had gathered armies. Raised barriers. Prepared forbidden spells and evacuation routes. But every pantheon in that room had known the real truth:
They wouldn't have won.
Even with all their might.
Even with all their pride.
They would have fought. Delayed. Burned.
And then died.
What the armored man had done in Antarctica — erasing the corruption — was not a miracle.
It had been the only successful containment.
And then, when the full invasion had come… he erased it again. Quietly. Perfectly. Entirely.
Bastet whispered, "No divine weapon could have done that. No forge of the gods produces such results."
"The design," Tsukuyomi murmured. "The lines of the fortress. The beam formations. They are not divine. But they match his movements."
Athena nodded. "It's the same creator."
"And he never spoke," said Odin. "He never asked for allegiance. He didn't even wait to be seen."
At last, the Seven Immortals stood.
Dante's voice rang out, calm and absolute.
"He is not a god."
"He is not a demon."
"He is not our enemy."
"He is the guardian who does not speak."
"The world stands," added Rasputin, grinning, "because he decided it should."
Around the chamber, reluctant nods began to follow.
The gods were not used to being saved.
But they could recognize when they had been.
Vira said nothing through it all. She absorbed each word, each argument. She watched the images play again and again — the precise angle of the beams, the unnaturally synchronized attack patterns, the silence that followed. She did not know who the man was. She did not yet guess.
But something about the design lingered in her mind — like a puzzle she once solved wrong. It was... familiar.
When the meeting adjourned, the gods dispersed in pairs and clusters, each one thinking of what they had witnessed.
And behind them all, in the hall of marble stars, the black silhouette of Second Light faded once more from the air.
No name.
No face.
No message.
Just salvation.
And silence.
Beyond the eyes of the assembled gods, away from Olympus and the lingering echoes of divine speculation, in a place untouched by mortal wind or celestial flame, stood a tree older than language.
Its roots touched the bones of the world. Its branches brushed stars long dead.
This was the Well of Urðr.
And beneath it, in a temple woven of futurelight and shadow-thread, the Norns lived.
Urðr sat in stillness, knitting the past into ribbons. Verðandi moved like the ticking of a clock, recording now with patient strokes upon an unending scroll. And Skuld — the youngest, the most dangerous — leaned back in a chair made of probability, spinning a mirror on the tip of her finger.
She wasn't smiling.
Not today.
The mirror wobbled once. Slowed. Then stilled.
Its surface was black.
Not dark. Not fogged.
Just blank.
Skuld scowled faintly.
"For the third time," she muttered, "still nothing."
She tilted her head, flicking a finger. The mirror shimmered again — a surge of effort, a twist of divine will.
But the surface remained dead. No reflection. No glow.
No thread.
Just emptiness.
She had tried everything: forward projection, reversed causality, inverse destiny weaving. She had even tried guessing. And still — nothing. Not a blur. Not a hint. The armored man's thread simply did not exist in the tapestry.
It was as if he walked just beside the weave. Never in it. Never of it.
Verðandi, nearby, paused in her inscription and looked over.
"Still bothering with that one?" she asked, her tone neutral.
Skuld huffed and flopped backward, letting the mirror hover above her face. "He's annoying. Everything else has a shape. A path. Even the chaos-born. But this one?"
Urðr spoke without looking up. "He doesn't walk with fate. That's what you said, isn't it?"
Skuld nodded. "He doesn't just walk without it. He bends the places it should be."
"You're annoyed," Verðandi said flatly.
"I'm curious," Skuld replied, swinging her legs. "Curiosity is sacred."
"Curiosity is dangerous."
"Same thing," Skuld said, grinning now.
She stood, letting the mirror fold into a deck of shifting glass cards that vanished into her sleeve. The irritation on her face faded, replaced with the glint of mischief that so often preceded trouble.
"Well," she said, "if fate won't show me his face, maybe fate will bring him to me."
Verðandi raised an eyebrow. "That's not how probability works."
"With me?" Skuld said sweetly. "It might be."
Urðr sighed softly but said nothing. She had long since learned that when fate resisted, Skuld laughed harder. It had always been that way.
As the temple light shifted with the passing of a million unseen moments, Skuld leaned against a column made of bound timelines and exhaled slowly.
"Soon," she whispered to herself. "Something always breaks when I wait long enough."
And somewhere, very far away — beneath a world saved in silence — a man who left no footprint in fate unknowingly drew the gaze of the only goddess who could chase him without a thread to follow.
Not because she had seen him.
But because she hadn't.
And for Skuld, that was the most dangerous reason of all.
Chapter 208 – The Threads That Don't Tangle
The meeting had not yet ended.
The image of the fortress still hovered above them — a silent monolith of precision and restraint, carved from impossible symmetry. It no longer flickered. It no longer fired. And yet its presence, even in memory, continued to bend the air.
Debate had shifted from awe to speculation. Some gods asked if he was born of another cosmos. Others wondered if he was a rogue ancient being — forgotten or hidden. But no one, not even the gods of time, could trace his emergence.
It was then that Zeus, still standing at the heart of the chamber, turned toward the Norse king.
"Odin," he said, his voice like low thunder. "Have the Norns seen anything?"
A hush fell again.
Even among immortals, the Norns were not invoked lightly.
Odin remained seated, Gungnir resting across his lap, his one eye gleaming with distance. He didn't answer at first. Then he let out a long breath through his nose — half sigh, half resignation.
"No," he said. "They saw nothing."
A pause followed. Many leaned in.
Odin looked up at the image of the armored man — still preserved in perfect recollection mid-strike, katana cutting through a corruption-born titan in Antarctica.
"They tried," he continued. "Urd searched the river. Verðandi turned the hourglass. But when they looked for his past or his path... they saw only black."
"Black?" asked Athena. "Like a void?"
"Worse," Odin replied. "Like an unplugged mirror. A dead screen. No light. No static. Just absence."
The gods exchanged glances. Even those born of chaos did not like hearing that fate had nothing to say.
Amaterasu's expression darkened. "Fate has boundaries, but it rarely admits it."
Odin nodded slowly. "Which is why it worries me."
"And Skuld?" Zeus asked next, his voice low.
Now Odin hesitated.
"She was… interested," he admitted, his tone drier than before.
"Interested?" repeated Ra.
The corner of Odin's mouth twitched, not quite a smile. "She watched longer than the others. She didn't speak. Just stared. And then she laughed."
Even the air paused.
"Laughed?" Athena repeated, voice flat.
"Yes."
Tsukuyomi muttered, "That's never a good sign."
"No," Odin agreed. "It's not."
A few gods exchanged nervous looks. Even among deities, there were lines not to be tugged — and Skuld, youngest of the Norns, had made a game of tripping over them. She was not malevolent. But she was chaos in the shape of curiosity.
"She's a trickster," Odin said plainly. "Always has been. A prankster with the threads. A headache to anyone who dares seek certainty."
"She can see the future," Zeus reminded.
"She can tease the future," Odin corrected. "Shape it. Knot it. Bait it. And laugh when it turns sideways."
Athena exhaled. "So if she finds out who he is—"
"She won't tell us," Odin said before she could finish. "Not unless it amuses her. And even then, only in riddles."
"And if she meets him?" Ra asked.
Odin's gaze drifted upward.
"Then may the man in the armor pray to whatever he believes in."
"She wouldn't harm him?" Amaterasu asked.
"No," Odin admitted. "She'd probably just... follow him. Appear when least expected. Say things that unsettle. Nudge fate when no one's looking. Maybe curse his teacup so it always pours slightly too much. That kind of thing."
A few chuckles escaped from the braver gods.
But the undertone remained tense.
Because it was true: Skuld could walk through destiny like it was her garden. She didn't need prophecy. She didn't need power. She was fate's youngest daughter — and the world bent around her like reeds in wind.
"She may find him," Odin said, finally. "Or… she may let him find her. If she learns who he is, we may never know."
Zeus folded his arms, looking again at the armored figure, the blade, the fortress. "So we've been saved by someone even the Norns can't thread."
"Or someone who walks between the threads," Odin replied.
"And Skuld," Zeus muttered, "is already watching."
Odin sighed deeply, eyes half-lidded. "Pity the man."
A pause.
"And pity us, if she finds it funny."
The chamber lapsed into uneasy quiet once again.
Above them, the fortress shimmered once more — the replay continuing in absolute silence.
Just the image of a blade cutting clean through a god-eating meteor.
No name.
No shrine.
No fate.
Only action.
And the curiosity of a goddess no one could predict.
Beyond the eyes of the assembled gods, away from Olympus and the lingering echoes of divine speculation, in a place untouched by mortal wind or celestial flame, stood a tree older than language.
Its roots touched the bones of the world. Its branches brushed stars long dead.
This was the Well of Urðr.
And beneath it, in a temple woven of futurelight and shadow-thread, the Norns lived.
Urðr sat in stillness, knitting the past into ribbons. Verðandi moved like the ticking of a clock, recording now with patient strokes upon an unending scroll. And Skuld — the youngest, the most dangerous — leaned back in a chair made of probability, spinning a mirror on the tip of her finger.
She wasn't smiling.
Not today.
The mirror wobbled once. Slowed. Then stilled.
Its surface was black.
Not dark. Not fogged.
Just blank.
Skuld scowled faintly.
"For the third time," she muttered, "still nothing."
She tilted her head, flicking a finger. The mirror shimmered again — a surge of effort, a twist of divine will.
But the surface remained dead. No reflection. No glow.
No thread.
Just emptiness.
She had tried everything: forward projection, reversed causality, inverse destiny weaving. She had even tried guessing. And still — nothing. Not a blur. Not a hint. The armored man's thread simply did not exist in the tapestry.
It was as if he walked just beside the weave. Never in it. Never of it.
Verðandi, nearby, paused in her inscription and looked over.
"Still bothering with that one?" she asked, her tone neutral.
Skuld huffed and flopped backward, letting the mirror hover above her face. "He's annoying. Everything else has a shape. A path. Even the chaos-born. But this one?"
Urðr spoke without looking up. "He doesn't walk with fate. That's what you said, isn't it?"
Skuld nodded. "He doesn't just walk without it. He bends the places it should be."
"You're annoyed," Verðandi said flatly.
"I'm curious," Skuld replied, swinging her legs. "Curiosity is sacred."
"Curiosity is dangerous."
"Same thing," Skuld said, grinning now.
She stood, letting the mirror fold into a deck of shifting glass cards that vanished into her sleeve. The irritation on her face faded, replaced with the glint of mischief that so often preceded trouble.
"Well," she said, "if fate won't show me his face, maybe fate will bring him to me."
Verðandi raised an eyebrow. "That's not how probability works."
"With me?" Skuld said sweetly. "It might be."
Urðr sighed softly but said nothing. She had long since learned that when fate resisted, Skuld laughed harder. It had always been that way.
As the temple light shifted with the passing of a million unseen moments, Skuld leaned against a column made of bound timelines and exhaled slowly.
"Soon," she whispered to herself. "Something always breaks when I wait long enough."
And somewhere, very far away — beneath a world saved in silence — a man who left no footprint in fate unknowingly drew the gaze of the only goddess who could chase him without a thread to follow.
Not because she had seen him.
But because she hadn't.
And for Skuld, that was the most dangerous reason of all.
The summit ended in light and whispers. The gods returned to their domains — some pleased, some wary, many still trying to pretend they weren't shaken. Olympus dimmed. The Ecliptic projections faded. And the image of Second Light, the silent guardian above the world, flickered out at last.
Vira said nothing as the divine hosts departed.
She simply watched.
Eyes golden and calculating, her expression as still as carved emerald. Her mother, Freyja, gave her a brief look — not permission, not warning. Just acknowledgment. She knew the decision had already been made.
And so, without announcement or fanfare, Vira Sunleaf left Olympus.
The gateways of the High Elves opened only for the royal line, and only by will. She walked through the dimensional folds with no escort, no fear, and no doubt in her step.
But in her hand…
Was a photograph.
Old, folded carefully, preserved by magic. The edges were worn, but the image inside was still clear: a child's drawing. Crude, but focused. A suit of armor. Sleek. Angular. Designed not for glory, but for function. No crests. No symbols.
Just presence.
She remembered it clearly.
She had been six years old, sitting atop the marble steps of the Starroot Garden in Alfheim, still seething from her first loss at Lunecraft: A Duel of Sigils. The boy — human, quiet, frustrating — had been drawing in the dirt with a small enchanted stylus. She had barely paid attention at the time. She had been more interested in humiliating him again. So she had challenged him. Again. And lost. Again.
But afterward, when he left, she found the drawing left behind on the bench beside where he had been sitting.
She had kept it.
Not out of sentiment.
Out of suspicion.
Because even then — something about it had felt too deliberate. Too composed for a child.
For years, she had dismissed it as coincidence.
Until now.
Until she saw that same armor, reborn in orbit, erasing death itself with beams of absolute finality. The shape was the same. The design philosophy. The weight.
It was impossible.
Wasn't it?
The man in the armor couldn't be him. He was a human. A boy. Mortal and forgettable.
And yet…
As Vira stepped through the veil and onto Earth, she felt a strange chill race through her spine — not fear. Not excitement.
Anticipation.
She wasn't here to reunite.
She wasn't here to reminisce.
She was here to confirm.
And if it was him…
She would make him kneel across the sigil board once more.
And this time, she would not lose.
Chapter 209 – The Emerald Hunt
The skies of Earth were dull compared to Alfheim — hazier, slower, weighed down by gravity and human imperfection. Vira Sunleaf walked through them without effort. Her presence disguised, her mana sealed beneath a glamour of subtle weave, she moved through the world of mortals like a passing ripple across water — noticed only if she allowed it.
She stood now on a balcony of a tall hotel, high above one of the cities below. The humans bustled like insects. So noisy. So cluttered. So fragile.
But her target wasn't.
He had never been fragile — not even as a child.
Not even when he was supposed to be.
She drew out the photograph again — the child's drawing of the armor. Alex's drawing. A quiet, human boy who had beaten her at her own game. Again and again. Then vanished. She'd told herself she'd forgotten him. But then the fortress appeared. The way it moved. The angles. The silence. The pattern.
It was like watching him make another move on the board.
She folded the paper carefully and tucked it away.
Behind her, a soft shimmer broke the air, and her personal attendant knelt without sound. The woman was elven — lowborn, competent, and invisible to all but her mistress.
"Report," Vira said.
"We made contact with the embedded assets in the Magic Association," the attendant replied. "Specifically, those within the intelligence division beneath Geneva. They confirmed the existence of a family matching your description: Mark and Sarah Elwood — active-ranked demon hunters of the highest tier. Recently reclassified as 'non-field due to retirement,' but that's likely a cover. Their records are sealed beyond standard access."
Vira's gaze didn't move from the sky.
"Did you extract their location?"
"Yes, mistress. The records mention a rural residence in Japan — countryside sector, remote enough for privacy, but close enough to maintain contact with both the Vatican and the Association."
The servant held out a projection crystal.
A map flared into existence. Coordinates. A name.
Alex Elwood.
Vira said nothing for a moment.
Then: "Prepare the gate."
The servant hesitated. "You wish to travel alone?"
Vira turned to face her fully for the first time. Her golden eyes gleamed, expression soft, but hollow.
"I lost to him without understanding why. That won't happen again."
The attendant lowered her head. "Yes, mistress."
As the teleportation array began to hum behind her, Vira closed her fingers around the crystal. Her mind moved several steps ahead. The situation was becoming clearer now. His parents were legends — known among divine circles, feared by demons, respected even by the Vatican. And yet they had left no trace of supernatural talent in their son's records.
Unless they lied.
Unless he had lied.
Vira smiled faintly.
It was not warmth.
It was certainty.
This would no longer be a coincidence.
This would be a confrontation.
And when she stood before him — the man behind the armor or not — she would know.
And if it was him?
She would challenge him again.
Not for nostalgia.
Not for answers.
For revenge.
The spell circle completed with a whisper of golden wind. Rings of radiant mana unfolded around her ankles, then flared upward in a silent cascade of light. Vira's figure shimmered — ethereal for a moment — and then vanished.
The countryside air was colder.
She stepped out of the teleportation array onto paved stone. A neat path. Trimmed hedges. A single sakura tree leaning quietly beside a modern two-story house. The roof was flat. The lines were clean. The windows tinted. It was… orderly. Almost sterile in its elegance.
Human, but precise.
Just like him.
She stepped forward, her soft heels clicking against the walkway. A small breeze lifted her hair, making her silver-edged cloak flutter like ivy in starlight. She stopped before the door.
Raised her hand.
Knocked once.
Twice.
Then waited.
It didn't take long.
The door clicked.
It opened.
And he stood there.
Alex.
Older. Taller. Broad-shouldered beneath his dark shirt, black hair a little tousled as if he'd just walked out of a laboratory or a quiet morning nap. His eyes were the same — deep, dark, unreadable — but more tired now. More refined. Like steel forged into something quiet and inevitable.
Vira froze for just a fraction of a second.
He was more handsome than she remembered.
Too handsome, in fact. She had seen gods preen before golden mirrors, dripping with divine aura. Yet he stood there without even trying — effortless, clean, dangerous in a way that didn't speak. It radiated.
She recovered instantly, letting a cool smile curl on her lips. Her voice was composed silk.
"…It's been a long time, Alex."
Alex blinked.
There was a polite beat of silence.
And then he tilted his head slightly and replied, "I'm sorry. Have we met before?"
The words were not cruel.
Not mocking.
Just… sincere.
Genuinely confused.
Vira stood perfectly still.
Inside her chest, something gave a quiet crack.
He didn't remember her?
Impossible.
She had carved that defeat into her own bones.
She had dreamed of this encounter for years. Imagined how it would go. How she would stand above him again. How she would reverse the humiliation and leave him breathless.
And he didn't even recognize her face.
Not even a flicker of memory behind his eyes.
Her fingers curled slightly at her side.
But her smile never changed.
Calm.
Icy.
Deadly.
"…Ah," she said smoothly. "That's right. I suppose time forgets many things. Still—" her gaze narrowed slightly, "—I haven't forgotten."
Alex blinked again, then stepped aside politely. "Would you like to come in?"
She said nothing.
But stepped forward.
Each movement measured. Every breath calculated.
If he didn't remember…
Then she'd make him remember.
And when he did—
He'd understand what it meant to lose to her again.
Chapter 210 – Echoes Behind the Eyes
The interior was clean. Simple. Cool wood flooring, a pale modern sofa, glass panels letting in a wash of gentle sunlight through sheer curtains. There was no clutter. No garish decorations. It was the kind of place designed by someone who wanted peace — or someone who didn't plan to stay long.
Vira stepped inside with the elegance of a visiting queen, her cloak settling softly as the door clicked shut behind her. The air smelled faintly of fresh tea and morning rain.
Alex walked ahead, expression unreadable, but his movements were relaxed. "Please, make yourself comfortable," he said. "I was just about to make tea."
She did not sit.
Not yet.
She watched him disappear into the adjoining kitchen — not hurried, not guarded, just naturally calm.
That was what unsettled her the most.
There was no fear. No hesitation.
He had no idea who she was.
None.
Her eyes narrowed as she stood still, taking in the details — the objects on the shelves, the angle of the sunlight. Every inch of this place was intentional. Purposeful. It matched the person she remembered — not the boy, but the movements behind the boy. Every line of the house was a polished echo of the logic she'd seen in the fortress.
He doesn't remember me, she thought.
But I haven't forgotten.
She turned her gaze downward — at the back of his hand as he moved through the kitchen.
There, barely visible, was something else.
Two faint symbols shimmered on the skin — ancient, magical, folded into a compact form. Vira's eyes sharpened instantly. They weren't tattoos. They weren't defensive sigils.
They were presences.
Hidden. Dormant. Familiar.
Someone — or something — powerful was sleeping inside them.
Possibly more than one.
Her lips pressed into a thinner line.
So he's not alone.
A few minutes later, he returned with a tray and two teacups. He set them down carefully on the glass table and gestured for her to sit. She did — slowly, smoothly, never taking her eyes off him.
She picked up the cup but did not drink.
He sat opposite her, relaxed, one leg crossed.
"So," he said, "do you mind telling me your name?"
Still no memory. Not even in his voice.
She smiled faintly, but it didn't reach her eyes.
"Vira," she said softly. "Vira Sunleaf."
Alex blinked.
A moment passed.
"…That's a beautiful name," he replied sincerely. "Elven, isn't it?"
That nearly broke her composure.
She set the cup down.
Delicately.
"Do you always forget the ones you defeat?" she asked.
Alex frowned gently. "I'm sorry?"
Vira tilted her head slightly, golden eyes narrowing with slow intensity. "We played a game once. A duel of sigils. You won. You beat me. Not just once. Many times."
"I don't remember that," Alex said after a pause. "And I don't usually forget people."
That, she believed.
Which meant something else had erased the memory.
A seal?
A curse?
Something designed to blind him to who she was?
The possibility gnawed at her pride.
She leaned forward just slightly, studying his face with new sharpness. She could feel the stability in his aura now. Not divine. Not demonic. But far, far beyond human. Subtle. Seamless. Buried deep, like a blade hidden beneath velvet.
The tea sat between them, untouched.
Her smile returned — softer now. Not cold, but… amused.
"I'm here," she said lightly, "because I wanted to see if you were still as irritating as I remembered."
"And am I?" he asked, leaning back slightly.
"More," she said.
Much more.
But this time, she wouldn't underestimate him.
And next time?
She wouldn't lose.
The tea remained untouched.
Vira placed her cup down and folded her hands in her lap, eyes gleaming. "Let's play a game."
Alex blinked. "A game?"
She leaned slightly forward. "We've played it before. Though… you don't seem to remember."
He tilted his head, unsure if this was some form of metaphor. "Alright. What kind of game?"
She raised one hand.
A soft shimmer pulsed through the air between them. The sigils formed first — elegant, complex, luminous — rotating in perfect orbit above the coffee table. Circles and runes, fragments of moonlight etched in sequence. Then the grid unfolded beneath it: six concentric rings, with twelve sigil nodes on each tier, their magic flowing like threads through a spinning loom.
"Lunecraft," she said simply. "A Duel of Sigils."
Alex stared at the formation, then slowly leaned forward, his curiosity piqued.
"It's a game of memory and abstraction," she continued, voice crisp. "You place a sigil on the board. Your opponent counters with one of matching frequency but opposite resonance. The goal is to collapse the board in your favor. If you create a fractal echo in three tiers or lock your opponent out of viable moves, you win."
Alex furrowed his brow. "That's… surprisingly intricate."
"You understood it instantly as a child," she said, cool and sharp.
He looked up at her.
She looked back.
He hesitated… and then reached out, touching the hovering interface. The moment his fingers brushed the air, a quiet hum responded — the board accepted him as a player, adapting to his presence.
"Alright," he said. "Let's play."
The first move was hers.
She etched a radiant curve on the second ring, sigil of sunroot binding — a classic opener, defensive but reactive. He responded with a frostleaf counter, twisting the path into a null channel and absorbing her resonance. She blinked.
He moved faster the next round. Sharper.
Not chaotic — but intuitive.
Each placement was elegant.
Clean.
Cruel.
Her third move was blocked before she placed it.
By the fifth move, the game was already narrowing.
By the seventh, the grid's harmonics shifted entirely in his favor.
By the tenth—
Collapse.
Her side vanished.
His pattern bloomed.
A perfect spiral folding inward like a star dying into light.
The game board froze.
She stared at it.
And then…
It vanished.
The magic withdrew. The lights faded.
Her hands, still hovering over the space where her sigils should have been, trembled faintly.
Not enough to be seen.
But she felt it.
He had beaten her.
Again.
Without remembering her.
Without knowing why it mattered.
Alex leaned back. "That was… fun, actually."
She didn't speak.
Not immediately.
Because the shame that burned under her skin was not just from losing — it was from realizing the truth.
Even when she had all her memories…
Even after all her training…
She still couldn't touch him.
"I... see," she said at last, her voice low.
He raised an eyebrow. "You alright?"
Vira's smile returned — poised, sharp as a blade tucked into silk.
"Of course," she said. "Just... remembering something."
But inside, her pride cracked again.
And she didn't know how much more it could take before it shattered completely.
Alex rose and stepped away to return the untouched tea to the kitchen, humming softly as if the game were nothing more than a mild, pleasant distraction.
Vira remained seated.
Still.
Poised.
But behind her calm, the air felt colder.
She watched the space where the game board had hovered. Empty now. Quiet.
Like it had never existed.
Like her defeat meant nothing at all.
She had prepared for this.
Trained for it.
She had studied tactics, symmetry, layered memory patterns. Her mind had become a battlefield, and her pride — sharpened over decades — had been honed for this very encounter.
And yet he moved like water again. Thought in arcs, not lines. Played not to win — but to end.
The boy she'd sworn to surpass was no longer a boy.
He was something else.
Something worse.
Something unreachable.
She stood, her movements smooth, effortless. Her expression the picture of nobility and grace.
But inside, her thoughts burned like acid.
She had come here to reclaim her dignity.
Instead, he had erased her again.
And he didn't even know it.
As Alex returned with a polite smile, she nodded as if nothing had happened.
"You're still as annoying as I remembered," she said softly.
But behind her eyes — golden, unblinking — a storm churned beneath the glass.
She smiled.
Perfectly.
Graciously.
And quietly seethed.